human.

Sorry for the silence. If no one comments, i have no evidence of readers, and therefore no motivation to write. This is pride, yes. There have been many neon indicators of pride in my life lately, and one of them is the flaring frustration that i feel at that fact.

C.S. Lewis observes that time goes at the rate of sixty seconds per minute, and i kind of love how true that is. I love that time is just a skinny slice of our existence but we wouldn't know how to be without it.

When i'm home i eat like a pig and don't exercise, (neon) and care too much.

Sometimes i try to construct my own worldly-awesome life by planning adventures (involving extensive sojourns across oceans) and it's just [neon] because what my book says in Heaven is way better than anything i could ever plan. Staying here and following when i hear Him read out of it is a much more glorious adventure. It's a lot more simple, too. And i keep saying that i like simple.

Madeleine L'Engle died in September 2007. I wrote her a letter earlier that year but never sent it because i was shy, and didn't even know if she was still alive, and now it's too late. A good chunk of my self would not be as whole without her widsom. The most influential writer of my life could have known it (on this earth at least) but the chance is gone. I'm glad for her, that she knows what is beyond Death now.